


A Comfortable Place

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddles, Diner Cuddles, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person, Park Cuddles, Picnic Cuddles, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3684258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean really wishes he didn't need an excuse to put his arm around Marco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Comfortable Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wingsofbadass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofbadass/gifts).



> Hey Rie. I hear you like cuddles. GET READY FOR SOME HARDCORE CUDDLING. :D
> 
> Happy birthday! <3

You’re not a cuddly kind of person, or a person who falls in love easily. In fact, you’re pretty bad at it, as history has proven at least a few times—both at cuddling and loving people—but sometimes you conveniently forget these facts about yourself.

Sometimes, cuddling sounds like a great idea.

And it’s not that you think he’s interested, or how he looks fucking gorgeous even under hideous neon diner lighting at three in the morning as he picks at the french fries you ordered for him.

It’s not that you and he just left Ymir’s party, and when he mentioned being hungry and you suggested the diner just around the corner, your heart jumped into your throat when he said yes.

It’s not that he’s currently smiling stupidly at you, a mug of _hot chocolate_ clutched loosely in his hand.

It’s not that you’re so totally fucking in love with him that you have the spins, and it has nothing to do with the vodka you consumed a few hours prior.

Of course not—it’s just that, sometimes, cuddling seems like a great idea when Marco’s around, because he’s Marco, and you love him. Bad as you may be at it.

“Jean,” he says with a silly grin, probably more drunk on the sugar than alcohol at this point. 

“Yeah?” you croak, almost choking on the mouthful of water you’ve been holding in your mouth for thirty seconds as you remember to swallow.

“You’ve got ketchup on your cheek,” he says, tilting his head with a sweet smile that you know you don’t deserve, considering that you’ve had your arm wrapped around his shoulders since the moment you sat down in the booth, seizing the excuse to touch him. Which is sort of creepy, you’re well aware.

“Uh,” you cough, eyebrows raising slightly in embarrassment.

He reaches over—not displacing your arm, much to your relief—to dip a paper napkin in a glass of water and bring it up to rub gently at your cheek where the errant ketchup has ended up; you try desperately not to blush.

“I’m not drunk, you know,” he says suddenly as his eyebrows raise in a concerned look. 

You exhale slowly as he puts the napkin down amongst the scraps of your post-party feast: a piece of apple pie you’d ordered in a panic, just to order something, and Marco’s half-eaten fries and mostly-empty hot chocolate.

“I know,” you say, nodding your head since it’s the only thing you remember how to do, given how close he is.

“I think you might be kind of drunk, Jean,” Marco says sheepishly, but he’s still smiling at you. “You’ve barely said anything since we got here.”

“No, I, um,” you cough, trying not to bite your lip, hoping _desperately_ that he doesn’t pull away, “I’m just... tired.”

“You want to go?”

“No!” you practically squeak, not moving your arm. “You haven’t finished your hot chocolate.”

Marco nods, and then his entire body relaxes as he leans his head against your shoulder easily. “Thanks for taking care of me,” he sighs, sound half-asleep, “I don’t go to a lot of wild parties.”

You snort without meaning to, and then stiffen as you think Marco might take it as an insult. But when he doesn’t call you on it, your face softens since he can’t see your expression.

“It’s okay,” you reply brusquely. “No problem.” 

“Mm, Jean, I’m sleepy,” he says, shaking his head. “‘M sorry, my wallet’s in my pocket...” he sighs again.

Marco Bodt has been your friend since the tenth grade, but this new thing—this “put your arm around him” thing—started one night in your car at a drive-in movie you’d gone to together for shits and giggles.

It was a cheesy, old school horror movie, but he’d been legitimately terrified, sitting there with his hands clasped nervously, practically sweating as Freddy Krueger slashed through various victims. 

Marco had looked over at you and smiled nervously, obviously trying not to betray his own fear. You’d laughed it off like nothing and leaned over slightly to drape your arm around his shoulders—casual and platonic. 

You’d only planned on leaving it there for a moment, but he hadn’t shrugged you off. Instead, he’d just relaxed and let you stay like that.

And since then, every chance you get, you put your arm around him. In fact, it’s become like an addiction and you can’t seem to stop.

“Check?” the voice of the waitress cuts into your thoughts.

“Mm,” Marco hums unhelpfully, practically drooling on your shoulder, asleep.

“Oh, yeah,” you say gracelessly, “thanks.”

She just shrugs, snapping her gum and rolling her eyes. 

“Mm, Jean,” Marco repeats, snuggling against you in a way that makes your heart hammer so loud you’re terrified he’ll hear, “you’re warm.”

“I’ll drive you home,” you reply softly as the busy waitress absentmindedly slaps the check down onto the table in a patch of ketchup.

“Okay,” Marco replies, yawning. “Sorry, I’m lame.”

You laugh wryly, tightening your arm; the check can wait.

“It’s okay,” you reply with a little smile. 

The vodka still left in your system lets you tilt your head ever so slightly and indulge yourself with the smooth sensation of his dark hair against your cheek. 

But you know you can’t sit in this diner forever, as much as you may want to, and you regretfully pull away from him to fish around your pocket for your wallet.

When you drop him off at the corner where his apartment is with the flickering streetlight that still hasn’t been fixed, he gives you a warm, sleepy smile, before thanking you for driving and climbing out of the car. 

You watch him run across the street under the guise of making sure he gets in safely, and as he disappears through the front door of his building, you resent yourself for not having the balls to invite him back to your place.

= = =

There are lines between people that you never noticed until you became addicted to the shape of Marco’s shoulders.

Right now, the topography between him and you is formed by the way your bodies are bent, lying next to each other in the sunshine on a blanket in the park. You’re positioned on your side, curled into yourself slightly, as you watch Marco watching clouds, lying on his back with his arms contentedly folded behind his head.

He looks over at you, as if suddenly realizing he’s being studied, and smiles. “Thanks for coming with me,” he says, his eyebrows raising slightly. “I know having a picnic in the park is sort of primary school, but...” He gives a sheepish grin you find so devastatingly charming that you just want to sink into the ground rather than betray your hammering heart. “It’s just so nice out.”

You grin a little in return and shrug, turning your gaze down to eye the peanut-butter and jelly sandwich still wrapped in cellophane that Marco brought.

You’re honestly surprised there’s not a wicker picnic basket.

The park you’ve settled in is practically empty, and it’s a perfect day. The sky is blue, dotted with only a few white clouds, and you didn’t even have to wear your jacket. The ground is slightly lumpy underneath the Spiderman coverlet you and Marco are currently lying on—undoubtedly a relic Marco’s mother couldn’t bear to throw away—and you can’t remember the last time you felt so at ease.

Suddenly, the lines of Marco’s body shift as he rolls onto his side to look at you and smile, his face covered in freckles due to the spring sunshine that’s appeared in the past few weeks.

“What do you see in the clouds, Jean?” he asks, looking genuinely curious.

You snort and roll your eyes, hoping it doesn’t come off as mean-spirited, but you don’t dismiss his question and offer a lighthearted, teasing smile.

“What?” Marco demands, pointing at you. He sniffs, poking you in the shoulder. “I guess you just don’t have any imagination.”

“Guess not,” you deadpan, raising an eyebrow. Nevertheless, you roll onto your back; now, with your shoulder blades pressed against the ground, the slight curve of Marco’s body feels like a valley rising next to you. 

“C’mon, you must see _something_ ,” Marco continues to pester. “I was just kidding.”

When he reaches out to playfully flick you in the shoulder, you try to hide the tingles it sends through you, like waves you can almost visualize undulating throughout your body from that single point.

You want to touch him so badly it aches.

“Uh,” you reply disinterestedly, pointing idly at the sky, “I guess... there’s a shoe?”

“How is that a shoe?!” Marco immediately asks. “Where?”

You huff in mock exasperation. “C’mere,” you say, moving a little closer, happy to be able to feel the warmth radiating off him, “see?”

You point your finger into the sky where you’re looking, and then suddenly, before you know what’s happening, Marco’s head has somehow ended up practically in the crook of your shoulder.

“Where?” he repeats, sounding more curious than skeptical of your claim now.

His hair tickles your chin; you can’t help the way your breath catches, but he doesn’t react.

“Uh, there,” you say, willing your voice not to waver as you turn your body slightly to allow him an opportunity to move away, “to the left.”

“Oh, yeah,” he finally says after a moment, as if having a revelation, “now I see it.” And then you’re perfectly mapped together as he settled his head in the crook of your left shoulder and presses against you, as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. “You have a better view,” he laughs quietly, as if him settling his head _on you_ is perfectly normal.

But then again, maybe it is normal to Marco. Maybe all the things that aren’t normal to you are normal to him; it seems that way a lot. It’s so easy for him to touch you, to be close, whereas you know the truth—that you don’t let anyone touch you the way he does.

More to the point: you don’t touch anyone the way you touch him.

“Okay,” you agree simply after a few moments, deciding to accept the gesture without question. 

This will have to be fine. It’s not exactly what you want, but having Marco’s long, lean body next to you as he picks apart cloud formations and uses you as a pillow isn’t exactly the worst thing in the world.

To your surprise, though, Marco doesn’t keep talking about the clouds. Instead, as you struggle to come up with something more interesting to see than a shoe, you realize that Marco’s breathing has deepened and he’s fallen asleep against you.

You let him sleep, and you feel like you’re the only two people in the world. The wind blows, making the green leaves in the trees around you whisper, and Marco murmurs and presses closer.

You’re afraid to even move, so you just lie there perfectly still, hoping he won’t get tired of doing this.

Whatever “this” is.

= = =

In eleventh grade, you kissed.

You didn’t talk about it for years—not to him, and not to anyone else—and you didn’t want to. It had been too much to deal with.

But now, you’re ready to talk about it, since every time you see him you somehow manage to get your arm around him. And each time, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to stop the way your mouth moves toward his hair, and how you want to roll over to face him and pull him close. Not just an accident or a coincidentally convenient time to end up holding him.

“Hey, Marco,” you say across the table you’re sharing in the coffee shop, “do you remember much from high school?”

Marco looks up in surprise from where he’s been lazily sipping at his latte—extra milk, extra sugar—and his eyes widen.

You suddenly feel an edge to the conversation that you’re not expecting, and you decide to tread carefully.

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, cocking his head to the side, dark eyes wider than usual.

You’re sitting at a small, two-person table next to the window. It’s a late, runny Sunday afternoon with too much humidity and rain to be tolerable, but this has become a routine for you both. You’ve always found Sunday depressing, but apparently, so has Marco.

“Never mind,” you interject, attempting to amend the badly chosen conversation topic quickly. You offer up a cocky grin, hoping your own nerves don’t show; you have the worst fucking habit of bringing things up at exactly the wrong time.

“No, now I’m curious,” Marco insists. The strange colors of the grey afternoon light make him seem paler than he is, and you realize that there are shadows under his eyes. They’re very faint, but they’re there; worry suddenly blooms in your chest.

“Just drink your coffee,” you tease, rolling your eyes and nudging his foot under the table.

Marco pouts in that adorable way he has no idea is adorable, and rests his head in his hand, shooting a dark look at you that holds none of the irritation he probably intends it to.

You sit in companionable silence for a few minutes; drinking coffee with Marco on shitty, rainy Sundays is actually the most blissful part of your week.

“This weather makes me sleepy,” Marco says suddenly, yawning.

“You want to go back to my place and take a nap?” you ask nonchalantly. The words are out before you can stop them, and you freeze in horror, hoping the reaction doesn’t show on your face.

But to your shock, Marco doesn’t even blink; instead, he just smiles and nods. In fact, something lights up in his eyes that you don’t recognize, but it makes your heart speed up.

You gather up your things more quickly than necessary—your beat-up leather jacket and Marco’s umbrella and raincoat—and make a mad dash to your apartment under the auspices of escaping the rain.

Marco almost lands in a puddle, and starts to laugh hysterically as you sprint after him; he’s always been faster than you, even in high school.

You reach the front door together and tumble into the lobby and then elevator, craving the warmth of your bed and Marco. 

“Jean?” he says suddenly as the elevator door pings shut, reaching around you to press the tenth floor, already knowing which one you live on.

“Yeah?” you ask breathlessly, suddenly very fixated on the way his inner arm brushes your waist, even through the jacket you’re wearing.

“What were you going to say about high school before?” he asks.

You immediately wish you hadn’t brought that fucking topic up. What were you thinking you were going to say? _Shit, Marco, I shouldn’t have pulled away five years ago?_

Instead of answering, you fix him with a hard look.

Floors two and three _ding, ding_ past.

“Why do you keep asking?” you say cautiously.

For a moment, there’s a tense silence filled only with the slow whir of the elevator mechanism, but then it’s broken as Marco leans forward and presses his lips against yours. He kisses you hard—grabs your shoulders, pulls you close, and moves your mouths together.

You can’t stop the breathy hum of a moan that rises in your throat, painfully emotional.

But it’s quick and there’s something like a flash of lightening about it, that makes your heartbeat into a thunderous roar, strikes fear there.

“That?” he asks as he pulls away, his voice an uncharacteristically meek whisper.

Floors four and five _ding, ding_ past.

You’ve always been shit with words, and while you don’t understand what’s happening right now, you decide you’re tired of desperately trying to touch him when you know it’s not like that.

So you push him against the wall of the elevator and kiss him roughly; your teeth click together awkwardly and he makes a surprised noise as you pull back abruptly.

Floors six and seven _ding, ding_ past.

Does he want to fuck? Is that what this is about? 

You want to ask, want to demand the truth, even though the truth is never anything anyone wants to hear.

“Do you still want to take a nap?” he asks softly, his dark eyes downcast and a blush tinging his cheeks. The question is almost surreal, given what just transpired, but there’s something vulnerable about it that makes your throat tighten.

“Is that what you want?” you ask, irritated at the way your own voice emerges as a whisper. You feel more pathetic than the last time this happened, when you so stupidly pulled away and acted like the dumb kid you were.

He nods, and then finally raises his head. “Sorry if I’ve been pushy,” he murmurs, looking genuinely apologetic. “I just... like how your arm feels around me.” He shrugs a little, looking slightly dejected, but also confused.

You kiss him again, only this time, you do it right—slow and soft, giving him time to properly react.

Floors eight, nine, and then ten pass and _ding, ding, ding_ and you don’t even notice because Marco tastes sweet like coffee and smells like rain.

The doors ping open and you barely even notice as you pull him into your apartment, pushing the door shut with your foot.

You walk him into the bedroom, almost tripping over a box on the floor that’s still there from moving—you still haven’t totally unpacked since coming back to Trost—and he just goes, walking backward as he trusts you to lead him.

You’re not sure what this is, and even though you feel aroused and you sort of want to kiss every inch of his skin, this moment is also about something else.

“It’s been kind of a long time...” he murmurs, suddenly looking hesitant as he pulls away to sit down on the edge of bed, raising his eyes again to look at you with that same confused expression.

You slowly sit down next to him and get close, rubbing your hand gently over the ball of his shoulder, relieved that you can touch him without an excuse now.

“We don’t have to worry about that right now,” you murmur, pressing your face against his neck and inhaling deeply.

He sighs softly and nods, and it seems as if a weight practically lifts from his shoulders.

You pull him up onto your unmade bed, peel his jacket back and push it onto the floor, and then pull him into your arms.

He settles immediately, clinging to you, not holding back for the first time.

The truth is, you could do this with him forever.

“Jean?” he asks, his face pressed against your chest; your heart thumps a few times as you feel his foot rub against yours.

“Hm?” you hum, tightening your arms around him.

“Did you want this?”

“I’ve wanted this,” you exhale, making the words come out, “for a long time.”

“Oh,” he says softly, and then sighs. “High school sucked.” 

You laugh a little as he searches for your fingers and then links them together.

You sigh heavily, but squeeze his hand. “Can we stop going to that coffee shop and just start doing this every Sunday?”

It’s such a strange question that you almost feel embarrassed, but the mood in the room completely changes, and Marco says very softly, voice full of emotion, “Can we?”

You sigh now, too, closing your eyes and releasing his hand to stroke his hair.

“Yeah,” you reply. “As long as I don’t have to pretend to see fucking shoes in clouds to get you to put your head on my shoulder.”

Marco laughs softly, and he finally relaxes; within minutes his breath slowly starts to even out, and you feel more at peace than you can ever remember.

After that, wrapped in the warmth of Marco’s body and the sound of rain on the window, Sunday becomes your favorite day of the week.


End file.
